A Fine Passion

  As more guests arrived, those already present spilled down the terrace steps and spread out along the lower walks and lawns; like a wave, they rippled expectantly across the paved court, an improvised dance floor. Descending the steps at Clarice’s side, Jack admitted, “It really is a magical sight.”

  Hidden in a leafy grotto, the musicians set bows to strings, and the first haunting strains of a waltz floated out above the gleaming heads. Clarice turned into his arms and he gathered her in, then set them revolving.

  She smiled. “It’s a magical night.”

  At such a ball, until the unmasking at midnight, it was possible to dance with one partner exclusively without causing a scandal; with everyone masked and cloaked, how could any of the beady eyes watching possibly be sure, sure enough to risk comment? So they waltzed, and talked quietly as they moved through the crowd. Some guests, mainly the younger crew, grasped the opportunity of anonymity to indulge in rather more risque behavior than they would normally dare, yet the gathering was generally benign, a pleasant way to spend a spring evening.

  Later, once dominos were put back and masks removed, the glitter and glamour of a ton ball would take hold, but until then, a sense of subtle mystery held sway.

  “That’s Alton.” Clarice leaned close to Jack, indicating a couple standing nearby, totally oblivious to all about them. “At least he’s behaving. I haven’t sighted the other two, yet.”

  “They’re here.” Jack steered her away from Alton and Sarah.

  Clarice blinked up at him. “Have you seen them? How did you recognize them?”

  He grinned. “They saw you. I recognized their reaction.”

  She studied his eyes, confirmed he wasn’t joking, then humphed and looked away. Being taller than the average, she was relatively easy to recognize; spotting her through the crowd, Roger and Nigel had both headed in the opposite direction. Jack smiled, and turned her toward the dance floor; the musicians were getting ready to start playing again.

  They were at the edge of the floor, waiting to step into the dance, when a younger couple, laughing, presented themselves before them.

  The lady playfully wagged her finger at them. “Her ladyship says you’ve been dancing together far too much. You must mingle.”

  “Indeed.” Her companion, tall and darkly handsome, grinned. “You are commanded to mingle.” He bowed flourishingly before Clarice. “My lady?”

  Clarice shot an amused glance at Jack, then gave the gentleman her hand. “If you insist, my lord.”

  Jack watched her step into the gentleman’s arms, quelled a pang of jealousy and patently irrational concern. He looked down at the pretty blond lady, who all but bobbed before him expectantly. He smiled. “Ma’am, if you would honor me with this dance?”

  She laughed, a light sound that held a measure of triumph, then gave him her hand and let him lead her to the floor.

  There was nothing unusual about the encounter; the same had been happening to other couples about them for the last half hour. Nevertheless, out of habit, Jack kept a distant eye on Clarice as he whirled his partner around the floor.

  Keeping track of Clarice should have been easy, yet when the dance ended and, parting from his companion, who curtsied prettily then bobbed away into the crowd, doubtless searching for her next victim, Jack focused on the lady he’d thought was Clarice, the woman turned and proved to be someone much older. A chill touched his nape. He scanned the shifting crowd, but could see no other tall and regal female.

  The last he’d glimpsed of her, and been sure it was her, she and her partner had been revolving down the other side of the floor. Reminding his prickling instincts that they were in the private gardens of Holland House, enclosed within stone walls, and that the chances of anything untoward occurring were surely slight, he started quartering the crowd.

  He tried not to dwell on the fact that anyone with any connection to the ton would have known that Clarice would be there tonight. Dancing with him in the poor light.

  And that everyone would be masked and cloaked, indistinguishable—that no matter how he prodded his memory, he would never be able to identify either the gentleman who had whisked Clarice away or the lady who had distracted him.

  When he reached the other side of the dance floor, and had still not found Clarice, he was ready to panic.

  “Unhand me, you oaf!” Clarice struggled frantically, trying to break free of the rough hands that had grabbed her and hauled her back through shrubs and bushes into a dark clearing.

  Her partner—the bounder!—had whirled her to an unexpected halt at the far edge of the dancing area, indeed, just a little beyond, where the paved court was bounded by thick shrubbery.

  He’d released her, bowed, smiled unpleasantly, and rather ominously advised her, “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Lady Clarice.”

  She’d blinked, and he was gone, a swirl of black domino merging into the crowd. Frowning, she’d stepped forward to follow him, away from that distant nook where no one else stood, when two pairs of hands had reached out of the bushes at her back and grabbed her.

  “Jus’ be still, woman! ’Ere, Fred, where’s that gag?”

  Hauling in a breath, Clarice tried to wrestle free, but the man behind her, a huge brute, simply tightened his arms around her until she thought she might faint. Abruptly realizing how real was her danger, she sucked in a tight breath and opened her mouth to scream—

  Her mask went flying. A huge paw slapped over her lips. “Now, now—you don’t want to do that, missy. No need to let anyone know we’re ’ere.”

  He lifted her off her feet and started to shuffle forward, away from the noisy crowd.

  Clarice closed her eyes, tried not to breathe—he reeked enough to make her feel faint just from the smell—and bit down on his palm.

  Hard.

  She nearly gagged, but it worked. He howled, wrenched his palm away and desperately shook his hand. She didn’t wait but hauled in a breath and screamed for help.

  The other man, a shadowy figure, slapped her. Almost casually, but the blow made her head sing.

  “Stop that!”

  The man still holding her was cursing. The other came to stand before her, piggy eyes peering into her face from beneath the brim of a dirty cap. “No point screeching, anyhows. The nobs’re making such a racket no one’ll hear you.”

  She dragged in another breath to scream again; the instant she opened her mouth, quick as a flash the second man stuffed a crumpled kerchief into it.

  Clarice gagged, wheezed, and tried to spit out the material, frantically trying to clear her mouth.

  Her sudden burst of struggling caused the man holding her to yelp; he grabbed her shoulder, fighting to hold her upright.

  Just as Jack crashed through the wall of bushes.

  Clarice redoubled her efforts. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Jack grab the second man and fell him with one blow.

  Then he turned to face the man holding her, who took one look at him and instantly started to use her as a shield.

  Jack went one way, the man went the other, keeping her between them. For a fraught minute, they performed an awkward dance.

  The man Jack had felled groaned; he hauled himself onto his hands and knees, moaning.

  “Come on, Fred! We got to get outta ’ere!”

  Gathering himself, the man behind her lifted her and literally threw her at Jack.

  Jack caught her, pulled her protectively to him, staggered back under her weight but steadied.

  His arms wrapped protectively around her, she felt his muscles tense with the impulse to give chase as her assailants stumbled away, quickly disappearing into the blackness that was the rest of the gardens.

  Unabashedly clinging to him, she knew the instant they were alone, safe; the battle-ready tension holding him faded, enough for him to move, to gently brush her cheek, cradle her face and tip it up to his.

  “Are you all right?”

  Not entirely sure she could trust her voice, she no
dded, met his eyes, fell into them.

  Watched his gaze devour her face, trace her features, saw in the moonlight the hard edges and planes of his face shift. Saw, very clearly, the Norman lord he truly was, the battle-hardened warrior stripped, for one instant, bare.

  What she saw in that instant, in his face, made her heart turn over.

  His eyes met hers, seemed to see into her, seemed to sense that she did indeed, could indeed see him. Then something—raw possessiveness, blatant desire—swept through his eyes. His arms tightened about her. He bent his head and kissed her.

  As if he owned her. Completely. Utterly.

  She was swept away on the tide; she didn’t even try to fight it. Clung, instead; wrapped her arms about his neck and kissed him back with every iota of passion in her highly passionate soul.

  Time stood still.

  For long moments, they communed, explicit and intimate on their private plane in the dark of the night.

  At last, he lifted his head, looked down into her eyes. She was plastered against him, molded to him; she saw no need to move.

  Something caught his attention. He looked at her shoulder, at where her domino had been pushed aside; he frowned. “Your gown’s ripped.”

  Freeing one hand, still holding her safe against him, he lifted the torn silk of her bodice, smoothing the fragile material up over her breast to the shoulder seam from which it had parted.

  That was when they heard the first titter.

  They both swung to look, Jack still holding her protectively within the circle of his arms.

  A bevy of guests, old and young, stood crowded around a gap in the bushes a little farther along. Two of the males were holding lanterns aloft.

  “Ah…” one said. “We, ah, thought we heard a scream, and…ah, came to look.”

  Unsurprisingly, that was greeted with a positive wave of titters. Some of the older guests were whispering behind their hands.

  Clarice closed her eyes against the sight and stifled a groan. It wasn’t hard to imagine what they thought they’d seen.

  Jack looked faintly disheveled, protective and defensive. Her skirts were badly crushed, her domino all askew, her bodice torn, and she had indeed screamed. No doubt they’d arrived just in time to see that unrestrainedly passionate kiss, and now thought they understood what had happened.

  Jack glanced at her; he didn’t know what to say. Neither did she.

  Before they could make any attempt to set the matter straight, Alton pushed through the crowd. He strode directly to them. “What the devil’s going on?”

  “Two men attacked Clarice,” Jack said, his tone low.

  “What?” Alton stared at her; to Jack’s relief, he seemed to see her pallor. “My God! Are you all right?”

  “Yes. Jack found me in time. But—”

  “Which way did they go?” Alton raked the darkness beyond them.

  Jack pointed. “But they’ll be away by now. I couldn’t leave Clarice to follow them.”

  “Of course not!”

  “Alton—”

  “My heavens! What is going on?” Lady Camleigh came bustling up, giving the crowd, who were starting to edge away, a severe look. She glanced at Jack and Clarice. Her eyes opened wide. “What…?”

  Alton explained before Jack could.

  Within a minute, Lady Cowper, Lady Davenport, and ultimately Lady Holland herself had joined them, along with Roger and Nigel and their fiancées, and Sarah, too.

  Jack could feel the effort it was costing Clarice, still within his arm, to remain upright, head high, her spine poker-straight. Everyone was exclaiming, asking how it had happened, whether she was all right—

  “Quiet, please!” Clarice didn’t shout, but her tone effectively cut through the chatter.

  Everyone fell silent. Everyone looked at her.

  She made no attempt to step away from Jack’s side, but, clasping her hands at her waist, she lifted her chin and quietly stated, “There’s something you all need to know.”

  Jack could feel her quivering with shock and agitation, but nothing showed in her cool demeanor or her steady gaze.

  “Before you appeared, a crowd had gathered—they came, rather late, in response to my scream. But after Jack had rescued me and the men who attacked me had vanished, I kissed him, and he kissed me. Then he helped me straighten my torn gown.” With one hand, she waved at her shoulder, where the bodice gaped from the seam. “That, unfortunately, is what the interested saw.” She paused, and looked around the circle of their supporters. “I think you can imagine what they think they saw.”

  “Damn!” It was Nigel who uttered their thoughts aloud.

  Regally, Clarice inclined her head. “Precisely. However…I’m afraid I really do not feel up to circulating among the guests for the next hour and more to quash the inevitable rumors.”

  Concern in his face, Alton stepped toward her. “You aren’t all right.”

  Clarice raised a restraining hand. “I’m just feeling a trifle shaky, that’s all. Jack will take me back to Benedict’s. I’ll be fully recovered by tomorrow. But”—she drew in a tight breath, looked around the circle once again—“I wanted you all to realize…what will come.”

  Somewhat to Jack’s surprise, the ladies, both young and old, gathered closer, assuring Clarice that she could leave it to them, that they’d ensure no ill-informed nonsense was credited. Everyone accompanied them back to the house in a blatant show of solidarity.

  The one who surprised Jack most was Lady Holland, their venerable hostess. She had the reputation of being an excellent friend, and a god-awful enemy; until she stood beside them while the carriage was brought around, Jack hadn’t been sure which she would prove to be.

  But then she patted Clarice’s hand. “Don’t worry, my dear. I think you underestimate your standing, and ours, too, if you think we can’t scotch this, or at least nip it in the bud. It’s transparent to any who’ve spoken with you both that the incident happened exactly as you described. In such circumstances, the rest”—with a wave Lady Holland dismissed their too-revealing embrace—“is merely to be expected.”

  Her ladyship turned her slightly protruberant eyes on him, and smiled. “Indeed, a gentleman such as Lord Warnefleet would have greatly disappointed us had he not reacted as he did.”

  Outwardly, Jack smiled; inwardly he groaned. The last thing he needed was to be cast as a romantic hero to the entire ton.

  At last they were in the carriage, rolling briskly back to Benedict’s. They didn’t talk along the way; Clarice held his hand tightly, her head against his shoulder, and stared out into the night.

  He did the same. Reliving that scene, imaging what the crowd had seen. The difficulty with Lady Holland’s and the others’ assurances was simple; they hadn’t seen that too-revealing embrace. That kiss that had cut far too close to his bone, the inevitable reaction to a situation that had shaken him so badly his customary chameleon’s mask had been nowhere in sight.

  That moment, that kiss, had been far too raw, their emotions, both his and hers, far too close to the surface for anyone watching to have misunderstood.

  To not have seen that they were lovers.

  They might not have, as the crowd doubtless thought, made love in the gardens of Holland House, but that one fact was now unarguable.

  And it was now public property.

  Chapter 20

  Their return to Benedict’s was uneventful; Clarice, wrapped in her domino to hide her torn gown, passed more or less unnoticed.

  Once in her suite, she shut the door, tossed her domino over a chair, then went to sit in one of the deep armchairs by the hearth. She slumped, very tired, still shaking inside. A small fire was burning; leaning forward, she held her cold hands out to the blaze. “I think Moira was behind that.”

  “Moira?” Jack had halted just inside the door; she could feel his gaze on her. “Not the traitor’s henchman?”

  “Not unless the traitor’s henchman can get friends of Moira’s daughters t
o help him.” She clasped her hands and stared into the flames. “I just remembered where I’d seen that man and woman before. They were walking with Hilda and Mildred in Bond Street a few days ago.”

  How Moira would laugh once she realized how her vindictive scheme had played out. That Clarice had been saved from whatever horrors Moira had planned for her, but had instead been caught in an even more flagrantly scandalous situation than the one Moira had tried to create seven years ago.

  Luckily, she was no longer twenty-two, and her father was dead.

  A few moments later, Jack appeared beside her. “Here.”

  She looked up; he was holding out a glass of brandy. She took it; sitting back, she sipped. The fiery liquid slid smoothly down her throat, then spread, warming the icy pit that was her stomach.

  For a moment, Jack stood, sipping and looking down at the fire. Then he shifted and sat in the other armchair. Forearms on his knees, he cradled the brandy balloon between his hands, then he lifted his head, and met her gaze. “We have to talk.”

  Her veins ran cold. She took another sip of the brandy. “About what?”

  His gaze remained, unwavering, on her face. “About the situation that now exists.”

  She quelled an impulse to ask “What situation?” He wasn’t going to let her avoid the subject; that much was clear in his hazel eyes. “What, precisely, do you mean?”

  He hesitated; to her it was clear he was searching for words, for the best avenue to follow. “Despite the fond hopes of our supporters, regardless of what that crowd did or did not actually see, they saw enough. No amount of denial is going to erase the truth they did indeed observe.”

  He paused, then drew in a deep breath; she wished she could cut the discussion short, dismiss his words, simply look away, but she couldn’t tear her eyes from his, from the face she now knew so well.

  “There are still…accepted practices within the ton. We might think little of them, but they nevertheless are there. If we want to remain an accepted part of that society, the circle into which we both were born, then we have to abide by those rules, by their ways.”